


This Must be the Place I Waited Years to Leave

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22462819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: After their failed executions, Hell agrees to leave Crowley and Aziraphale alone. Heaven, however, is not yet ready to forget the treachery of one of their own...There follows a rescue, a recovery, and a demon proving that an angel doesn't need Heaven's grace to be worthy and capable of love.[Includes illustration by defenestratin]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 284
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beautiful art in chapter two was created by the amazing and talented Adrienne/[defenestratin](https://defenestratin.tumblr.com). Go check out their art post on Tumblr [here](https://defenestratin.tumblr.com/post/190535316677) and show it the love it deserves.

The passage of Time is a curious thing.

For a celestial being whose existence spans more than six millennia, a decade – a _century_ – can pass in the blink of an eye. And yet, sometimes, a second can crawl by, stretching to eternity, drawn out and everlasting, a moment that encompasses all of time and creation and feels as if it may never end.

Whether it has been hours, days, or years since Gabriel and Michael appeared unannounced in his bookshop, Aziraphale has lost all notion. All he knows is the burn of the cursed chains binding him, the throb of the welts left by the lash, the sting from the feathers torn forcefully from his wings…

And yet the pain inflicted upon his corporeal body is nothing compared to the void in his soul, usually aglow with the bright warmth of his grace, now rendered dark and hollow by whatever infernal curse they had employed. He can no longer feel its presence.

It is an agony far worse than any physical torture he has endured.

_We may not be able to destroy you, but you will pay for your treachery._

Another interminable length of time stretches around him, its silent, inexorable march interrupted by nothing for a long time. It’s only when it’s broken that Aziraphale remembers it’s far preferable to the alternative.

The tell-tale sound of footsteps approaches, and Aziraphale braces himself for whatever will happen this time. He’s not yet resigned, hasn’t quite yet surrendered to his fate, but the flame of hope is guttering, diminishing a little more every time the archangels come by to execute whatever punishment they’ve chosen.

There isn’t a being in the universe – mortal, ethereal, or occult – that can wreak vengeance quite like an angel.

Refusing to cower meekly, he shifts onto his knees. It’s a slow, painful procedure, and he’s panting for breath he doesn’t need when the feet come to a halt in front of him. Ashamed to discover his eyes are still downcast – a measure of his fatigue rather than loss of defiance – he’s mustering the energy to lift his chin and face his tormentor lest it be misconstrued as an act of submission, when fingers graze his cheek.

He flinches from the touch, expecting a burn, a sting, but there comes none. No pain. The hand withdraws immediately and then there is a voice to take its place, familiar, comforting, washing over him like a balm.

“Oh, angel, what have they done to you?”

It’s so unexpected, so incongruous, that he must be imagining it, a figment of his foggy, pain-riddled brain. He’s finally cracked, broken, reduced to the torture of a hope conjured by his own traitorous mind. Or else it’s a trick, a cruel taunt, a way to strike at him that will truly hurt, deep in his soul.

He won’t let it work, won’t let it destroy him. Not this. Eyes tight shut, he hunches in on himself, as best he can when his limbs refuse to respond, leaden and useless. His wings, dulled to a dusty grey, lack the strength to curl around him, leaving him open, vulnerable.

“Look at me, angel.”

And, as much as he tries, he can’t deny the plea, the way that familiar voice – usually so bold, so cocksure – wavers, and he risks cracking open an eye.

It takes a moment for the sight to register, for surely it can’t be real. The lean, black-clad figure of his best friend cannot possibly be there in front of him, but something in his chest flutters and flares. He’s too afraid to look up further, and maybe he’s projecting that reluctance, that _fear_ , for the figure drops to its knees and ducks its head and right there before him is a shock of flame-red hair and bright, golden eyes, and it’s the most beautiful sight Aziraphale has ever seen.

Those eyes, currently free from their typical concealment behind dark lenses, express so many emotions so quickly that Aziraphale can’t catch them all. But Crowley’s angular features eventually settle into an expression that is chiefly composed of relief, concern in the furrow between expressive brows, anger in the sharp set of his jaw.

Aziraphale’s lips move, silently forming the shape of Crowley’s name, afraid that the vision will vanish should he speak, or even blink, and leave him alone once again. But then Crowley moves, slow and careful, reaching out to him with infinite care. Gentle hands cup his face, palms cool against his cheeks, and Crowley is really, truly, impossibly there.

“How?” Aziraphale’s voice is a ragged whisper, barely audible.

“Used to be an angel, remember?”

The word _saunter_ pops into Aziraphale’s head, and it would have been amusing – the image of a demon sauntering his way back into Heaven – if not for the perilous nature of the situation. There’s danger here, _deadly_ danger for a demon, and Aziraphale will not see him subjected to any kind of torment, not for his sake.

“You can’t… you can’t be here.”

“And yet here I am.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley doesn’t understand, doesn’t realise he needs to leave immediately, before any of them notice his presence. “If they… if they catch you…”

“They won’t.”

A grunt of frustration, willing Crowley to listen but lacking the strength to inject any more force into his argument. “You have to go.”

“Oh, it’s high on the agenda, believe me. Place makes me itch.” Crowley gives a dramatic shudder that runs the full length of his lithe body. “But I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Leave me.” He tries to sound commanding, insistent, but he’s never been very good at that, even at the best of times. And, as usual, Crowley doesn’t listen.

“Not a chance in Hell,” he states, firm. “Or Heaven. Or bloody Manchester. Wherever.” He waves a hand, dismissing the argument entirely. “You’re coming with me, or I’m staying.”

“They’ll—” His voice cracks, breaks, as unwilling to speak the thought as he is to think it. He swallows against his dry throat, tries again. “They’ll kill you.”

Crowley says nothing in response to that, but something in the way his lips thin and his eyes blaze hints at just how much value he gives his own existence when weighed against Aziraphale’s. This isn’t the first time Crowley’s come to his rescue, risked being discorporated – or worse – just because Aziraphale managed to get himself into some kind of bother; he’s _always_ there, always willing to do _whatever_ is necessary, and it’s enough of a revelation to chase away his last shred of stubborn objection.

Satisfied that he’ll hear no more protests, Crowley turns to the task of releasing Aziraphale from his bonds. He inspects the shackles binding his wrists, letting out a hiss of fury when he realises what they are. “Bastards.” His voice is dripping with rage, but his touch is ever so gentle as he lifts one of Aziraphale’s hands. His other hand clenches into a fist around the chain, his eyes falling shut as he concentrates, and moments later the chain crumbles to ash.

It’s like a weight has been lifted.

“Right. Let’s get out of here.” Crowley slips his shades back on, incongruously checks his watch, then eases an arm around Aziraphale to help him to his feet. Aziraphale does what he can to assist, but even free of the cursed chains it’s a struggle. His legs feel as if they no longer belong to his body, refusing to bear his weight and he clutches at Crowley’s shoulder, uses the solid support to anchor himself.

Together, they stagger a few paces, falling into a rhythm that somehow works, and hope dares to flare a little brighter in Aziraphale’s chest.

Only to be snuffed out completely a second later.

Where seconds before had been only the stark white emptiness of Heaven, now stands Gabriel, flanked by Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel; looming sentinels effectively barring their escape.

Aziraphale sags, would fall to his knees if not for Crowley holding him up, the last of his strength ebbing as defeat stares them down. He wants to thank Crowley for trying, for his friendship, wants to apologise for every way he’s ever wronged him, for getting him into this mess.

Wants to tell him that he has always… 

“My, what do we have _here?_ ” Gabriel rubs his hands together with unconcealed glee, interrupting Aziraphale’s racing litany of wishes and regrets. “Looks like we’ve caught ourselves a demon!”

 _No!_ What if it has been a trap all along? With him as bait at the centre. Devious and yet so simple, and Aziraphale wants to rage against their friendship being turned against them like this, has to settle for a weak and ineffective glare.

“I cannot be- _lieve_ you would be stupid enough to show up here!” There’s delight in Gabriel’s crowing voice, Sandalphon tittering away beside him like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard. “That’s dumb even by a _demon’s_ standards.”

 _No!_ Crowley is the farthest thing from stupid. Maybe voluntarily walking into Heaven isn’t the _smartest_ idea he’s ever had, but he has a purpose, a reason, and it’s far more virtuous than any act he’s witnessed – suffered – at the hands of the Heavenly Host. And isn’t that ironic. _He’s better than any of you._

 _He’s better than_ me.

A flick of a hand, and Gabriel is clutching a new length of chain, this one crackling with holy light. Blessed. He grins at Crowley, cold, violet eyes alight with menace.

“Bet you can’t _wait_ to see what we’ve got store for _you!_ ”

“No!” This time the word bursts from him, and with every last remaining ounce of strength he still possesses, Aziraphale draws himself straight, spreading his wings, clenching his jaw as the motion sends fire shooting across his shoulders and down his spine, ignoring the screaming protests of his weakened physical corporation to place himself between Crowley and his captors. Whatever they had done to him, the fate that awaits Crowley at their hands is infinitely more dreadful, and he won’t let that happen.

“Touching,” Uriel sneers. Michael alone looks a little uncertain, but even she seems pleased at such a fortuitous turn of events. Not even the Hordes of Hell could have projected as much malice as the four angels currently facing them.

And yet, Crowley does not seem at all fazed.

“’S okay, angel,” he says, calm and comforting, and how can he sound so nonchalant? He checks his watch again, casual as anything, and slips his hand into Aziraphale’s, slender fingers curling around his in a tight grasp, before turning to address the archangels.

“I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure, guys, but… ehh.” He pulls a face, a snarled grimace effectively demonstrating just what he thinks of his time spent here. “Let’s not do it again soon, eh?”

It’s mad enough to draw Aziraphale’s attention from the imminent threat, and he uses the last of his strength to turn to the demon, wondering what he’s missed, and catches a brilliant smile just as, with a flash and a crack, everything vanishes in a blaze of blinding white light.


	2. Chapter 2

The light blinks out, a soft yellow glow taking the place of its dazzling brilliance. Wooden boards press hard into Crowley’s knees, and he clutches Aziraphale tightly against him within the bounds of the chalk circle that’s enclosing them, the sigils drawn around its circumference still glowing faintly.

As the rush from the sudden, lightning-fast journey through the plane between Heaven and Earth fades, Crowley realises Aziraphale isn’t moving. Cold dread seeps through him, a denial rising in his throat, but just as the panic starts to take hold there’s a weak twitch of the hand that’s still grasped in his own, Aziraphale’s fingers not quite strong enough to squeeze, but it’s close enough.

It’s the sign he needs.

He hears a gasp and glances up. Anathema is stood just outside the circle, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. Crowley guesses she can see more than just the physical damage; she’s no doubt sensing whatever remains of Aziraphale’s battered aura.

Or perhaps she can’t detect it at all.

Newton, hovering anxiously several paces behind her, risks approaching, concern winning out over the shock of witnessing yet another bizarre spectacle. Surely he must be immune to them by now? “Is he…”

“No,” Anathema responds quickly, before he can say something stupid, something inconceivable. She scuffs out several sigils with the toe of her boot, breaking the circle. “Bring him to the bedroom.”

He’s no weight at all as Crowley gently lifts Aziraphale into his arms, for he doesn’t even consider he could be a burden. He’s as careful as he can be as he lowers the angel onto the soft mattress, but Aziraphale still groans softly. Crowley steps back from the bed before he can do any more harm.

“Can you help him?”

Newt is lurking in the doorway, and Crowley isn’t sure if he’s directing that query at him or Anathema. All he knows is he can’t heal an angel, no demon has that ability, for whoever has heard of something so ludicrous? He snarls his frustration, turns imploring eyes on the girl.

“This isn’t exactly the sort of thing they write about in _New Aquarian_ ,” she begins, until a flash of sharp teeth gives her a new sense of determination. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

She ushers Newt out of the room, already issuing him instructions, but Crowley’s attention is back on the angel lying so still on the bed. He looks so small and insignificant, lacking the light and energy that has always shone from him, as bright as any of the stars in the universe.

It’s not right, and Crowley wants so desperately to fix it.

There must be _something_ he can do; what’s the point in being able to perform miracles if you can’t use one to save the life of your best friend?

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry that he hadn’t kept him safe, sorry that he’d not gotten there sooner, sorry that he couldn’t wish away his wounds, his pain.

Sorry for not being what he needs.

His hands flutter uselessly above Aziraphale’s still form, afraid to touch, willing him to open his eyes and say something stupid and fussy and ridiculously old-fashioned.

He doesn’t.

A knock on the door heralds Anathema’s return, and Crowley looks to her with cautious hope. She’s carrying a stoppered glass bottle, and Crowley’s brain makes the leap a second before she speaks.

“Holy water,” she confirms. “If he’s been cursed, I figure something blessed will surely help.”

Crowley’s nodding, because it makes such perfect sense and he’s an idiot for not thinking of it sooner. It can’t hurt to try, at least.

Anathema sits on the edge of the mattress, pulls the stopper from the bottle. She turns toward Aziraphale, but pauses, looks up at the restless demon.

Wondering what the Heaven she’s waiting for, Crowley flails an arm at the prone angel. “Go on then!”

Her smile is patient, understanding. “Perhaps you should step back.”

Oh. It hadn’t crossed his mind, that he’s in danger, that some of the liquid could splash on him, lethal. He can’t quite bring himself to care now, except that it would mean less for Aziraphale. He retreats to the wall, as far as he can bear to be, and watches as, satisfied, Anathema gently raises Aziraphale’s head, holds the vial to his lips and tilts it up.

Most of the water spills over, down his chin, soaking a damp patch into the front of his nightshirt. Anathema stops quickly, righting the bottle before any more is wasted, and tries to readjust. It’s awkward, trying to lift Aziraphale higher with one hand while manipulating the bottle with the other, and Crowley can’t just stand by helplessly and watch her struggle, not when Aziraphale’s life is at stake.

Forgetting his own safety, Crowley goes to the other side of the bed, perches beside Aziraphale and gently slides his hands beneath his shoulders, easing him up just enough to prop him a little more upright, sliding half behind him as support. Anathema has pulled the bottle away, holding it well clear, and still hesitates even when Crowley nods at her to continue.

“Are you sure?”

Crowley’s response is a growl that brooks no argument. “Just do it.”

Aziraphale is a solid weight against him, and he holds him steady as Anathema holds the bottle to the angel’s lips, tips slowly. This new angle gives her more control; the holy water pours steadily onto his tongue, and he’s able to swallow without choking. So close, Crowley hears the click of his throat, and it’s only a small thing, but it’s a sign that his corporation is still functioning at least.

The knot of fear coiled inside Crowley unfurls just a little.

* * * *

Aware he’s not alone, Aziraphale’s first response is panic. For so long company has meant pain, and he’s bracing for it even as he slowly opens his eyes, blinking in light that isn’t the cold glare of Heaven, but the warm glow of sunlight.

Confused, he looks down, along the comfortable bed where he’s lying, at the head that’s resting on the mattress beside his hip. It’s familiar, but brings only the almost-forgotten sense of happiness. Relief.

He musters every ounce of strength he still possesses. It’s not much, but just enough to slide his hand a couple of inches across the mattress, to lift it and tangle trembling fingers into fiery red hair. Crowley jerks awake instantly, head snapping around, eyes wide and darting as if to reassure himself what he’s seeing is real.

“Aziraphale! Thank… _someone_. You’re awake!"

Another time, Aziraphale would have teased Crowley for stating the obvious, but his relief is palpable. Now isn’t the time for mockery, however gentle. He manages the smallest of nods, just a tilt of his chin really, but it has a grin breaking free on Crowley’s angular face and that’s worth the effort.

* * * *

_“Now I’ve got you, you slippery serpent. Right where you deserve to be. On the ground at my feet!”_

_The voice sends a chill down Aziraphale’s spine. It’s one he’d hoped never to hear again, and he knows it can only mean more suffering. Only this time, he’s not the target._

_As the image before him becomes clear, he is greeted by the dreadful sight of Crowley crumpled on the floor, struggling weakly to rise. And above him, looming with a sinister grin plastered across his face, stands Gabriel._

_With sickening certainty, Aziraphale realises they never escaped, Crowley’s rescue plan failed and now the demon is at the mercy of the barbarous archangel. Aziraphale tries to move, tries to reach out to Crowley, but he’s fixed to the spot, unable to do anything but watch as Gabriel enacts his wicked revenge._

_Arms spread wide, Heavenly light blazes from Gabriel, the ether burning with a Holy force so bright Aziraphale has to close his eyes against its intensity. He can’t see, and not knowing what’s happening to Crowley is worse than bearing witness to his fate._

_Then a scream cuts the air, long, ragged, raw with pain, tearing through him like no blade ever could. The sound of Crowley’s suffering is a more terrible torture than any physical torment he’d previously endured, and he doesn’t think it will ever end. They will both be trapped in this eternal agony._

_Until, with a choked cry, it abruptly stops._

Aziraphale jolts awake, the image seared into his mind, the scream still echoing in the silence, refusing to fade even with the sunlight falling in through the open curtains. He is shaking with a fear he has known only a handful of times.

And every one of those times, it was Crowley’s life in danger.

* * * *

When Crowley breezes into the bedroom, cup of freshly brewed tea in hand, the welcome he receives is the opposite of that he expected.

“You _fool!_ ”

There’s real anger behind Aziraphale’s insult, and it stops Crowley in his tracks.

“Eh?”

“Of all the stupid, reckless things… You could have been _killed!_ ”

Crowley has no idea where this sudden fury has sprouted from, aims for levity in his response. “Wasn’t though, was I?”

“Don’t be flippant. You should never have put yourself in danger like that.”

Crowley bristles, eyes blazing. How can Aziraphale even think he could leave him there? They may not have need of an Agreement any more, but surely their years of friendship have forged a far greater bond than anything they’d created to make their lives easier. “What, and just leave you there? Suffering Satan knows what at the hands of those bastards?”

“And then the holy water?”

Ah, so Anathema has told him about that. Crowley winces, knows all too well Aziraphale’s feelings regarding holy water and its proximity to Crowley.

“I was perfectly safe, Anathema was—”

“I’m not worth your life, Crowley!”

“You _are!_ ”

The silence that falls as the echo of his voice fades away is profound. He glares at Aziraphale, daring him to argue. Perhaps he just doesn’t have the energy to keep up the fight, but he sags back against his pillow and purses his lips unhappily. It doesn’t feel like a win, but Crowley has made his point.

He chalks it up as a minor victory and doesn’t think to wonder why Aziraphale should be quite so upset about his daring rescue.

It’s only later he realises that the anger had been hiding fear, that the haunted look in his eyes hadn’t just been memory, but the possibility of what might have been.

For both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a soft knock at the door. Expecting Anathema, Aziraphale is pleasantly surprised when it’s Crowley who enters at his summons. His arms are laden with a precarious stack of books that miraculously doesn’t topple as he sets it down beside the bed.

“I, uh, brought you something to read.” Crowley shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, expecting another dressing-down perhaps. “I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I just picked some that looked old and dusty, because you like those most, right?” He’s rambling, anxious. “If you want something different, just say, and I’ll go fetch—” 

“Crowley.”

His voice trails off to silence and he turns a wary gaze on Aziraphale. “Hm?”

“They’re _perfect_ , just what I needed.”

Crowley relaxes, Aziraphale’s smile as effective – if not more so – than his words. Until, that is, he speaks again.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley’s face twists into a grimace, shoulders hunching as if he’s trying to hide, to disappear.

“Don’t thank me, angel.”

It’s something Aziraphale is accustomed to, Crowley’s aversion to gratitude, especially when it’s for a good deed done. But he needs to say it, needs Crowley to know he _is_ grateful for everything he’s done, that he should never have implied otherwise.

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice but to hear it. I owe you a great deal of gratitude, and apology, and I’ve been sorely remiss in showing it. I do hope you know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Crowley’s fidgeting again, but this time it’s bashfulness that has him squirming. He shrugs a shoulder, aiming for insouciance and missing by a mile.

“Yeah, well. I suppose I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

“As I have you, my dear.” Aziraphale plucks the book from the top of the pile, takes a moment to appreciate the feel of the leather binding in his hand. “Perhaps you’ll keep me company while I read?”

Crowley’s look of long-suffering disinterest wouldn’t fool anyone.

“You just want someone to bore with all the boring details about your boring book.”

“And you never turn down the opportunity for a nap.”

“Oh, well now. A nap, you say?” He promptly pours himself into a chair, throws his feet up on the bed. Aziraphale shoots them a quick glance of disapproval, decides he can overlook this small transgression, and opens up the book.

It’s a small price to pay to have Crowley close by.

* * * *

One afternoon, Anathema pops in to ask if Aziraphale feels up to joining them for tea. His response is immediate and unequivocally in the affirmative, so Anathema offers him her arm as support and together they make their way to the kitchen, where the table is set and Newton and Crowley are waiting.

“Oh! How delightful!”

There is not only a pot of tea brewing away on the table, a line of cups ready and waiting, but a plethora of cakes and other assorted sweet treats. Despite having no real need for food, Aziraphale feels suddenly hungry, his mouth watering, and it’s refreshing to have an appetite after so long spent lacking strength for anything more physical than turning the pages of a book.

Aziraphale takes the empty seat beside Crowley and looks over the spread, hoping he’ll be able to manage more than a couple.

“It all looks delicious,” he tells Anathema as she pours the tea. “Thank you, my dear girl.”

“I don't deserve all the credit,” she says with an impish smile, “it was Crowley who brought the cakes.”

The demon squirms at the sudden attention, giving a little shrug. If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he’d say he looks embarrassed, but with his eyes hidden behind dark lenses, perhaps it’s just that he’s out of his comfort zone, at a tea party with a couple of humans.

“You like cake,” is his simple explanation. It’s true, Aziraphale can’t deny that, but he knows Crowley has put more thought into it than that. The cakes have a look of care and are decorated with irregular but beautiful flourishes that indicate they have been hand decorated, rather than miracled into being. Crowley must have found a local bakery, ordered the selection specifically with Aziraphale in mind, and while it’s not the first time he’s treated Aziraphale to food – whether a box of chocolates or dinner at the Ritz – the effort he’s gone to just to provide a lovely little indulgence is rather overwhelming.

One look at Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley scowls, clearly sensing the gratitude that’s poised on the tip of the angel’s tongue. He waves an arm to fend it off, turns the gesture toward the table to signal at the food.

“Just eat, angel.”

He sounds grumpy, but there’s a smile lurking underneath. Aziraphale does him the courtesy of leaving it unmentioned and applies himself instead to the task of deciding what to choose first.

“My dear, could you please pass the—”

Crowley already has the plate of fondant fancies in hand, offering the brightly iced sponges. Aziraphale opts for a bright pink one, plucks it from the plate, and lets his smile speak his appreciation.

* * * *

Crowley sprawls as he always does, but this time they’re sat close enough that his knee comes to rest against Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, so he leaves it there.

Aziraphale has his eyes closed, his face turned up to the sun, a small smile playing at his lips, and while summer is starting to ebb into autumn, there’s still enough warmth to heat his skin.

It’s the most vital he’s looked for days, and Crowley can’t take his eyes off of him.

There’s the sound of light footsteps, muffled by the grass, and Aziraphale twitches, eyes open and looking around in what Crowley realises is a flash of panic before he sees that it’s only Anathema and not an avenging archangel. The smile that replaces the momentary fear is bright, marred only by the exhaustion that still plagues him.

Anathema’s own smile is a happy one. “It’s good to see you looking so much better.”

“Thank you, dear. And let me take this opportunity to thank you and Newton for your hospitality while I’ve been recuperating.”

“It’s the least we can do after everything you guys did for us. For the _world_. Please, stay as long as you need, and if you hear Newt complaining, just ignore him.”

Crowley snorts; as if he has ever contemplated listening to that pillock. But he catches the glare Aziraphale shoots him and wisely holds back the jibe poised on his tongue.

“I’m sure we’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“There’s no hurry,” she insists again, her smile genuine. “And in the meantime, I was thinking of making some cocoa.”

Aziraphale’s eyes light up and his whole body gives an excited wiggle at the very suggestion. “That would be wonderful!”

She nods, smiling, as if she had expected no other response. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley barely notices Anathema leave; all of his attention is focused on Aziraphale, on how he is starting to look so much like his former self, more alert, _brighter_. But he’s also replaying what Aziraphale has just said to their hostess.

“You want to go back to London?”

“We can’t impose upon young Anathema and Newton forever, can we?”

“I thought, maybe…” Crowley shrugs. It’s probably a stupid idea, but Aziraphale is watching him with a patient gaze, waiting for him to continue. “We could, I dunno, find a place like this. For us, I mean. To live in?”

“Out here?”

Crowley shrugs again. “Here, Scotland, the South Downs, wherever.” Away from prying eyes and the risk of kidnap. It was ridiculous really, for Heaven and Hell could find them anywhere if they so wished, but that didn’t mean they couldn't make it harder for the bastards.

“You wouldn’t like Scotland, my dear. Far too cold.”

“Somewhere warm then. With ducks.”

“Wouldn’t you miss the city?”

Even as recently as a few years ago, Crowley would have said yes. He liked having so many things to do, so many people to meet and influence, so much potential for mischief. But none of that seems important any more. “Nah. There’s always trouble to find. If not, I can make my own.”

“I sincerely hope you won’t.”

“So that’s a yes?” He tries to tamp down his hope while Aziraphale mulls over the idea.

“Well, I would miss my bookshop.”

“You can keep it, visit whenever you want. Not like you ever kept regular opening hours anyway. Or bring it with you. Maybe not the whole shop, but the books. We’ll find space.” It would only involve a relatively small miracle, after all.

Aziraphale is watching him, a look of mild astonishment on his face. “You would do that?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe Crowley would give all that up, go to that much effort. “For me?”

Another shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “Anything, angel.”

He doesn’t add the words that echo in his head, afraid they might reveal rather too much, the motives he’s not even sure of himself.

_For us._


	4. Chapter 4

The place Crowley finds them is perfect. A pretty cottage just outside a sleepy, picturesque village, and Aziraphale wonders if there might have been a little demonic influence involved in its acquisition.

If there was, then it was of the harmless kind. The opposite, in fact, as the meadow behind their abundant garden is ideal for insects, the woodland beyond that an excellent home for a variety of flora and fauna.

There is even, Aziraphale soon realises, a little pond that appears to be home to a family of ducks.

Crowley denies any intervention, and maybe, Aziraphale thinks, he _hadn’t_ had a hand in any of it. Not knowingly, anyway.

The inside of the cottage is equally beautiful; a kitchen boasting a large window and range cooker, a sitting room lined with bookshelves and several comfortable armchairs, a bathroom that is rather small but suits the needs of two beings that have no real need for such facilities, and a bedroom with a wonderfully soft looking bed with several plump pillows at its head and draped with a tartan blanket.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at that, and Crowley tries not to look bashful. He isn’t very successful.

“I get the plants, you’re allowed one ridiculous blanket.”

And there are certainly more than a few indoor plants, dotted about the place in strategic positions. They add an extra element of colour and life, and Aziraphale vows to ensure Crowley is not too harsh on the things.

The fact of there being only one bed is not something that occurs to either of them as any kind of quandary. Aziraphale first chalks it up to Crowley knowing how little the angel typically sleeps, that neither of them truly need to, but he also knows Aziraphale has not yet recovered his full strength and has been sleeping more regularly recently. Perhaps Crowley isn’t planning another century-long slumber for a while yet.

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale doesn’t think to question it further, for even when Crowley comes and lies down beside him for the first time the night after they move in, it doesn’t feel at all strange to have him there. It’s nice to have him so close, while he rests, a soothing presence in the dark. And if they sometimes wake up a little more entangled than they fell asleep? Aziraphale doesn’t mind, and Crowley never complains either.

Crowley spends much of his time tending to the plants and talking Aziraphale through a series of very bizarre _reality shows_ on television, but he does venture out at least once a week, exploring, and Aziraphale is happy to spend that time reading, allowing Crowley the chance to stretch his legs a bit. But soon enough he’s joining the demon for short excursions, usually just as far as the pond to feed the ducks. Crowley has named them all and happily chatters away to them for hours, unconcerned that they never have much to say in response.

Somehow, they acquire a tartan mug. Crowley insists its appearance had nothing to do with him, but he does, grudgingly, allow it to stay. And if any time he brings Aziraphale cocoa in that particular mug, then it’s purely a coincidence and nothing to do with the pleased, and slightly smug, smile he always receives without fail.

It’s all absolutely wonderful, and yet Aziraphale is aware there’s something missing. Not from the cottage, not from Crowley’s committed attention, but more a constant niggle, somewhere inside him, that he somehow doesn’t quite _fit_ any longer.

* * * *

Crowley stirs, stretches his long limbs a little in a sleepy haze, then jolts fully awake with a start.

He’s alone in the bed.

Shoving the covers back, he sits up, only to swallow the cry that’s poised at the back of his throat, rising panic ebbing as swiftly as it had swelled. There’s just enough moonlight filtering in through the poorly drawn curtains to illuminate the figure perched on the edge of the mattress down at the foot of the bed.

Aziraphale’s silhouette is more familiar to him than any other single thing in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth, only now it’s lacking its typical proud bearing; the angel is sat with back hunched, shoulders slumped, and head hanging.

It almost looks like he’s praying. _Almost_. There’s something not quite right about the image, something missing. Some intangible thing that were Crowley asked to name, the closest word he could think of would be _faith_. 

“Angel?”

“Please don’t.” Aziraphale’s voice is low, almost inaudible, but in the still of the room Crowley can not only hear the words clearly, but also the dispirited plea behind them. Still, he doesn't understand.

“Don’t what?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders shift, and Crowley guesses he’s wringing his hands in his lap. An obvious tell that Crowley recognizes as a manifestation of his discomfort. It’s so perfectly Aziraphale that at any other time Crowley might have been amused, but now it only adds to the air of anguish that’s settled over the angel like a mantle.

“Don’t call me…” He hesitates, as if unable to utter the word. “That.”

“What? ‘Angel’?” Crowley’s still struggling to grasp exactly what’s going on in Aziraphale’s head, what’s being asked of him. It makes no sense. “I’ve always called you angel. It’s what you are.”

“But I’m _not_ , am I?” It’s almost a snarl, and Crowley reels back in surprise. But he knows it’s not irritation at Crowley’s inability to comprehend; rather, it’s his frustration with the situation that has him snapping. The spark of anger fades almost immediately, Aziraphale deflating once again. His next words are spoken on a soft sigh, directed down at his feet. “Not any more.”

Getting to his knees, Crowley shuffles up behind Aziraphale, touches a tentative hand to his shoulder, uncertain if physical comfort will be welcome. He's not exactly built for empathy, but every fibre of his being is yearning to somehow console Aziraphale, to assuage his sorrow. There’s a flinch, but Aziraphale doesn’t draw away, and when Crowley presses closer, tucks up close behind him, mindful of his wounds, he even leans a little into the contact.

Crowley slips his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, clasping his hands over his stomach, locking him into a secure embrace. He drops his chin onto his shoulder, and this is maybe the closest they've ever physically been. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion, low but clear in the still night.

“You'll always be _my_ angel.”

A quiet sound escapes Aziraphale’s lips, a soft gasp. He says nothing, but Crowley feels him relax, the tension draining from his body as if letting it leach away through that tight hold. Slowly, he slumps back, resting his weight snug against Crowley, fingers tracing nonsense patterns across his knuckles. Capturing the restless hands, Crowley holds them still. Safe.

With a sigh, Aziraphale breaks the silence. “I don’t suppose it matters much, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never was a particularly good angel.”

Crowley lifts his head so he can stare at Aziraphale, shocked. “That’s bollocks.” Before Aziraphale can take exception at his use of an expletive, he quickly continues. "You’ve always done your very best to help those in need, extended kindness to those who maybe didn’t truly deserve it." Himself included, but he doesn’t need to say that. He can sense that Aziraphale is about to protest, to argue that many of the things he had done in the past were driven by selfishness or greed, so Crowley forges on. “Sure, you can be a bit of a bastard, but you’ve never kidnapped one of your own, chained them up and _tortured_ them for refusing to fight a stupid war and sentence millions of people to death. If that makes you the bad angel, what are those bastards?” 

Aziraphale blinks. Unable, even now, to say a negative word against his fellow angels, and yet unable to argue against Crowley’s assessment, he remains silent. In the low light, his eyes shine, glitter, and Crowley is afraid he may be on the verge of tears.

Dangerous territory that, for a demon. A demon who should not be moved by such a show of emotion.

Giving Aziraphale a squeeze, he gently tugs him backward. “Come back to bed, angel.”

Aziraphale lets Crowley lie him down, bundle him up in the tartan blanket, and curl his slender body around him.

* * * *

Aziraphale had feared Crowley would be bored, out here in the cottage, away from the bustle and entertainment of the city, and Crowley had even, secretly, wondered if he would be proven correct. But what neither of them had taken into account was how no time spent in each other’s company was ever dull.

There are occasions when Aziraphale gets so absorbed in a book that he barely notices one day turning into another, but Crowley doesn’t mind those times either. They give him chance to go out and explore, maybe make a bit of mischief, and some of the characters who frequent the cosy little pub in the village provide an amusing distraction.

And Aziraphale is always there when he gets home.

He would never admit it, even to himself, but that’s his favourite part of every solitary day out.

Crowley had worried that the angel would suffer more bouts of melancholy. He has long become accustomed to Aziraphale being fussy, irritated, anxious, and even angry, but never has he seen him quite so defeated, not even when they had been facing almost certain doom at the hands of Satan, God, or any one of numerous entities in between. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened, and his spirits seem to have been steadily rising again, back to something almost akin to his previous temperament.

What Crowley has enjoyed the most, although he would never admit it to anyone, is how often Aziraphale is smiling again. Finding ways to make that happen has become a new and satisfying endeavour, one more worthwhile than creating chaos had ever been.

* * * *

“Aziraphale?”

He looks up with a small smile of enquiry. “Yes, dear?”

“I’ve, uh.” Crowley gestures behind him with a wave that explains precisely nothing. Aziraphale waits for him to spit it out. “I’ve done you a thing.”

Aziraphale's smile grows more amused. “That’s intriguing. What sort of a thing?”

Crowley groans. He’s not good with words, not when he’s trying to do something _nice_. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, Aziraphale watching him expectantly, until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he holds out a hand to the angel.

“Come on.”

Accepting the help to get to his feet, Aziraphale doesn’t release Crowley’s hand until they reach their destination. Unexpectedly, it’s the bathroom.

The tub is filled with water hot enough to mist the air, the steam heavy with a heady mixture of scents that draw him in, envelop him in an earthy embrace.

“What's this?”

“I believe,” Crowley draws, sarcasm dripping from every word now he’s back in more familiar territory, “they call it a _bath_.”

“I know _that_ , Crowley.” He’s not letting him deflect that easily. “I was referring to whatever it is you’ve added to make it smell so wonderful.”

“Oh, that. Yeah. It’s some stuff Anathema gave me.” He hitches one shoulder. No big deal. “Supposed to help with healing. Dunno if it works, but it seemed like something you might enjoy.” He adds a sneer, as if only Aziraphale could appreciate something so poncey.

“How thoughtful!” He’s careful not to say ‘nice’, but it’s a close thing, pleasantly surprised as he is. He starts to undress, and Crowley backs up to the door, intending to leave him in peace. Aziraphale’s voice halts his retreat.

“Won’t you stay?”

“You, uh, want me to?”

They have nothing to be embarrassed about, of course, lacking the sense of shame and bashfulness that often plagues humans, but Crowley had thought he might prefer some privacy.

“You could read to me!”

Aziraphale sounds so delighted at the prospect that Crowley can’t deny him. With a snap of his fingers, a stool and book appear, and he gets comfortable as Aziraphale gently eases himself into the water. Crowley can’t help but notice the marks that still stand out, around his wrists, criss-crossing his back. They have faded, no longer the raw wounds they once were, but they're still a dark stain across pale skin, a stark reminder, and he wonders if they’ll ever completely disappear.

When Aziraphale has wiggled himself into a comfortable recline, just his head sticking up above the water and foam, he looks up at Crowley and if he caught him staring he doesn’t mention it.

“What book do you have?”

Crowley doesn't know what it is, just that when he performed the miracle he had imagined it to be something that Aziraphale would enjoy.

“Something you’ll like,” he says and opens it to the first page.

* * * *

Autumn starts to fade, the chill in the air gaining more bite, the evenings drawing in more quickly. The cold is one thing, the rain an even more unpleasant addition to the changing season, and although Crowley can’t complain that the world is still here, still turning, he doesn’t have to be happy about having to trudge in the gloom along the muddy river their garden path has become to reach the cottage.

A snap of his fingers dries his trousers in an instant, cleans them of the splatters of mud. Next year, they absolutely must spend winter elsewhere, somewhere with a warm and sunny climate. He’s sure Aziraphale will agree, for he does enjoy walks now he’s stronger, willingly spending a few hours away from his books if it means he can spend that time in Crowley's company. A picnic! That’s a thing Aziraphale will certainly enjoy. In better weather, of course.

The thought of Aziraphale and food gives Crowley an idea, and he is about to go in search of Aziraphale when he realises there’s really no need to ask. He knows exactly what the answer to his question will be, and he goes straight through to the kitchen.

Another snap and the lights come on, but he sets about preparing the cocoa with no occult influence. It’s one thing Aziraphale has always insisted upon, convinced he can taste the difference. Knowing him as Crowley does, he probably can. Crowley doesn’t mind; there’s a certain satisfaction in doing things for Aziraphale, however small and seemingly insignificant. It’s the smile it brings to the angel’s face that makes the effort worthwhile.

Mug of steaming cocoa in hand, he knows precisely where he’ll find Aziraphale, and heads to the cosy little sitting room with the soft armchair that has fast become the angel’s preferred reading spot.

And he stops. Freezes right there in the doorway, gaping at the sight that greets him. It’s grown almost full dark, the moon not yet risen enough to cast its reflected light in through the bay window, and the reading lamp poised behind the chair is dark, unlit. But Aziraphale is aglow, everything around him limned with a soft golden lustre.

So deeply absorbed in his book, the angel hasn't even registered the reason he can still see the words.

“Aziraphale, you…” He opens and closes his mouth a few times, his ability to form sentences obliterated. “You’re…”

“Hm?” Accustomed to Crowley’s babbling, he’s slow to drag his attention from the page, but as he finally raises his head, Crowley sees the moment he notices. His eyes widen, a quick glance around to assure himself he truly is the source of the light, and gasps in delighted shock.

Book forgotten, he surges to his feet, his wings manifesting to all but fill the room, their feathers a bright, pearlescent white.

It’s almost blinding.

“Oh, Crowley!” He turns, seeking out the demon to share the moment, only to be hit by a force so strong he feels it pulse deep in the centre of his soul. “ _Oh_.”

His grin falters, and he’s staring at Crowley with such intensity that he feels pinned to the spot.

“What?”

Aziraphale says nothing, takes the few steps that bring him to Crowley until mere inches separate them.

“My darling boy.” He raises a hand, places his palm to Crowley’s chest. Crowley can feel the heat of it, but it’s more than that, and he suddenly realises just what it is that Aziraphale must be sensing. He hadn’t even known he was capable of it, much less that Aziraphale wouldn’t baulk at its implications. Instead, his lips curve into a beatific smile.

“My dear, I love you too.”

Aziraphale lets that love flow from him and Crowley’s not certain he should be able to feel it, or why he’s not exploding, but he lets it envelop him, does his best to meet it and let it meld with his own. He's vaguely aware they’re no longer entirely on the physical plane, no longer restricted by the laws of physics, and it’s like flying and falling and being cocooned by the softest blanket all at once.

And Aziraphale is right there with him, so entwined they are no longer two distinct entities.

**Author's Note:**

> I owe much gratitude to Elwin for his cheerleading, the idea for the bath scene, and not distracting me at all. Nope. Not at all.
> 
> The title is taken from the Pet Shop Boys song of the same name.


End file.
